


Work At It, And You Will Achieve Your (Boy Of) Dreams

by bystander



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Excessive Meme-ing, Friendship, I Don't Know Why Shiro Turned Into A Campus Celebrity But Just Roll With It, Lance? Know How To Deal With Feelings? Hah, Literal Human Disasters, M/M, Nobody knows, Sleep Off Your Problems, Swearing, Trans Female Character, What Does Keith Think About All Of This?, You Can't Pine If You Repress Your Feelings, minor allura/shiro/matt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9846929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bystander/pseuds/bystander
Summary: “You’re making this awkward, Keith, when I say it out loud it sounds dumb!” Lance shrieks. His voice cracks. Very noticeably. Lance wants to die. “Fine! You’re not getting any package! Have fun having an undefined relationship with me, asshole!”Alternatively, after an interesting encounter, Lance meets Keith again at his university. Lance, the poor mess, is attempting to parse how he feels about all this. His peanut support gallery, consisting of mostly Hunk and Pidge (but also the entirety of his dorm, Obama, his swimming team, his grandma, and Beyonce) are forced to bear witness to the entire thing.





	1. lance: i am going to run away for a bit what can go wrong

**Author's Note:**

> this story isn't gonna be angst nope i'm just putting this out there only the first chapter is like this
> 
> my sideblog for fic is @matsumakki.tumblr.com please give me love

Lance doesn’t quite know why he does it. While it wasn’t unusual for him to get out every so often, he’s never actually gone this far before. And he has class tomorrow, too.

Dipping his foot into the waves, he relishes the icy cold of of the sweeping tide. 

He’s alone on miles of beach, near midnight, the moon splaying her gentle light over the expanse of wood-dotted sand.

The air smells aggressively of salt. The force of it is intoxicating. Lance has to blink before he can clear his head from adding the scent of fireworks and grilled chicken. 

Eyes, having long adjusted to the darkness, track the sky above. Lance has never gotten used to the sheer number of stars in the sky, their unearthly glow and beauty—now, they dot the inky blackness like glitter. If he lets his eyelids rest half-mast, they blur and swirl into each other, city lights blinking at 11 P.M.

Lance squats, shrinking into his thin green jacket. The water laps at his bare ankles, dusty Converse abandoned some twenty feet from the shore. As beautiful as the beach is, it’s also frigid (under the bright rays of the sun, and more so at night) and he thinks that maybe he could have dialed his impulsivity down enough to slap on a thicker jacket. And a change of clothes.

He stays there, a bulky shadow, for ten minutes before he retreats into the part of the sand yet untouched by the water. Checking for any particularly menacing pieces of wood or broken glass, he makes to settle down and almost immediately falls flat on his back.

Lance knows, logically, that he shouldn’t be out here. He’s got a test to study for, his friends to keep company, his family to video call. Oh god, he’s got to practice swimming, too, and he’s been meaning to vacuum his dorm room for _weeks—_

He stops that train of thought with that last note, and goes back to staring fixedly at the stars glowing like beacons.

All right. Fine. He has some responsibilities to tend to. He’s got to do something about his gnawing insecurity. He has his life to get together. What ever the fuck, right? He can worry about it any time but tonight. Tonight he takes a break. That’s what he drove three hours out here for.

It should be fine. He left a note on the mini-fridge. With his phone on top, so Hunk won’t think to call.

Shifting to his side so he can watch the steady push-pull of the sea, Lance absentmindedly traces circle patterns in the coarse, tan sand. But soon the mishmash of shapes become something more coherent, a stick figure with messy hair on top of a podium, medal strapped around its neck. The image expands, the figure now center in a group of girls; it seems to be quite merry, what with all the hearts surrounding it. The figure is with another, tiny figure with glasses and a bigger figure and some kind of headband, watching TV. Last, some kind of barbecue with a large group of people laughing and swimming on another beach.

Lance stares at it, hard, and realizes his drawings now extend far beyond the little plot of space he was occupying, and that he had acquired a stick to draw the finer lines. He stares at it, longer, harder, and sighs. Lying back down, he rolls over the entirety of it, thrashing about, kicking his feet.

The sand has mixed and rolled into each other. Lance’s drawings have been rendered nonexistent, save for a few lines scattered here and there.

The cold, his hunger, and the smell sticking to his clothes become re-apparent to him. Frustrated, Lance rips off his shirt and peels off his jeans and underwear, sprints to the sea.

His legs are met with the resistance of the tide again, and as he wades in deeper, he freezes more than he knew it was possible to freeze, wades in until the water is up to his neck.

His dick and nipples are numb and smarting. He can't bring himself to care. Taking a deep breath, Lance dunks his head in. He is taken aback by the darkness, more deep and tangible. This doesn’t deter him for long, and not five seconds have passed until he’s gotten down to business and is screaming, screaming, screaming, his lungs rattling in his ribs, his limbs stiff from tension, his short hair dancing.

Lance comes up for breath, harsh and ragged. He gulps in air with a frantic desperation before he sinks back into the water and screams some more.

He has to go through this cycle twice more before he empties himself of emotion. Exhausted, hunger still snarling in his stomach, Lance swims closer to shore and flips onto his back.

Unfortunately, his thoughts, as they are wont to do, catch up with him. _I’m cold and sad and hungry,_ thinks Lance reflectively, _but at least nobody is around to see me skinny-dipping._

And then something flashes scorching red on the beach.

 

 

 

 

 

When Lance is making his way out from the water, it occurs to him that where there are explosives, there are generally people. Which means that if Lance gets out of the water now, he’ll be buck-ass naked in front of a stranger. Who _has explosives_. And he’ll be _naked._

Well. It turns out he wasn’t alone, after all.

But the flash came from pretty far away from where he was, so that all he can make from the source is a vague blob of darkness.

Ignoring his violent shivering, Lance quickly wipes himself down with his discarded T-shirt, maneuvering his limbs through the legs of his jeans, underwear, and jacket. He drops his T-shirt on his Converse and runs to the faint spark far off. 

The source of the light is about half a mile away, on the strip of concrete elevated above the actual beach. He slows to a stop before the person he can make out moving a small portable table notices him.

Dear god. He was expecting explosives, but expecting explosives and actually seeing explosives were two very different matters. Approximately a dozen large, bright red cannons were covered with tinfoil, lined up in two neat rows. They’re held in place by a wooden crate, and have these little wicks down the side. Lance knew immediately, without doubt, that he would get himself fucked up if he decided to light one up for kicks. 

Actually, the fact that thought lingered on his mind for more than a passing moment was a little concerning, but now was not the time to think of these things.

After watching the person continue in their set up, Lance clears his throat.

The person whips around and—Lance lets out a small gasp.

“Who the hell are you,” says the pretty boy, and Lance would absolutely whip out a masterful pick up line but his brain is short-circuiting and it’s _such a waste._

When Lance doesn’t answer, pretty boy crosses his arms, puts his weight into one foot, looks at him expectantly.

See, Lance isn’t _prepared_ for that because pretty boy’s got these sharp, blue-grey eyes that Lance hadn’t known he was weak for until he _was_ and god, fuck being an athlete with strong legs, his knees were buckling.

Pretty boy raises his eyebrows and whoops, there’s another piece of Lance’s sanity because he would take countless pictures of just those dark, thick eyebrows, frame them all, and admire them for eternity.

And then it’s too late because then Lance notices everything, the sharp face, jaw, nose bridge, that angry slant of his mouth, and Lance is about this close to founding a new religion.

Lance is so engrossed in cataloguing pretty boy’s face in his memorization compartment that he almost misses it when pretty boy repeats, “Who the hell are you?” noticeably more forcefully.

Lance shakes his head a tick before putting on his suavest face and says, in his flirty voice, “Lance McClain, but for you, sweetheart? Anything.”

“I’m a guy,” says pretty boy flatly.

“What a coincidence, I am, too!” says Lance cheerfully. “What’s your name, beautiful?”

“I don’t have to tell you.” Pretty boy clicks his tongue. “You give off a straight fuckboy vibe. I’m not here for that.”

Lance processes that, and then he bursts in hacking laughter. Pretty boy’s eyes draw together in bemusement. “What,” he says, his tone creeping into annoyance.

Lance spits out the last of his laughter. “Oh my god,” he wheezes, wiping away a tear. As the damp sticks on his fingertips, he realizes these kind of tears were entirely different from the kind he was fighting while he was driving, and a grin lingers on his cheeks. “You’re a riot, is all,” says Lance, finally. “I’m not a fuckboy. At least I don’t think I am? Pidge thinks so, though. Which is. Fair. I have little weed socks and everything.” Lance lets another chuckle escape him and says, “I’m definitely not straight, though.”

Pretty boy looks mildly put off by Lance’s laughter, but at least he isn’t hightailing it with his weapon arsenal, so there’s that, at least. And he’s uncrossed his arms.

Speaking of that. “What are you doing, anyways?” asks Lance casually. He starts to slouch into his signature lean onto wall thing, but he realizes halfway through that there is, in fact, no such wall. Catching himself before he falls isn’t a big problem, but he sees pretty boy’s uncertain squint at him and he wants to spontaneously burst into flames. Which pretty boy can definitely help him with.

Lance sends a wink at pretty boy’s way. Pretty boy’s eyebrows subsequently shoot into his hairline.

“Well,” says pretty boy, a bite caustic but no real malice. “What do you _think_ I’m doing?”

“Setting the beach on fire!” Lance says, lively. “I actually kind of like this beach, but if arson is your thing, don’t let me stop you!” Lance flashes a winning smile. “I could totally help you, actually!”

Pretty boy looks at him in an expression that Lance can’t quite read, but it falls somewhere between concern and irritation. “Why would I want to set the beach on fire,” he says. 

Lance shrugs, takes a palm and rubs at his still numb ears. “I know nothing about how the minds of the devastatingly beautiful work.”

Pretty boy’s already furrowed brows furrow further in. “Is this a joke,” he says after a short pause. “If this is your way of provoking people, I can’t say I like it.”

Now Lance is the one confused. “Usually this is a pick up line,” says Lance, tilting his head, “but have you literally never looked into a mirror? You kind of have that dark and mysterious thing going on—” Lance breaks off. He hadn’t noticed it at first, with only the dim moonlight, but.

“What the heck, man,” says Lance, hardly believing his eyes. “Is that a mullet?”

Pretty boy frowns, patting the back of his head. The abomination is there, in its dark, disgusting glory, three inches longer than it has any right to be. “Yeah? Why?”

Lance is, once again, struck dumb. “Just hold on,” he says. “I’ve gotta have a moment.” He turns on his heel and squats in the sand.

“What the _fuck_ ,” whispers Lance, slowly and deliberately. He buries his head in between his thighs. Takes deep breaths. He knew there was a catch. Nobody can be that attractive without a _catch._ He could overlook the popped collar for the v-neck underneath but there were some lines that couldn’t, and wouldn’t be crossed.

Lance sneaks a glance at pretty boy. He looks absolutely done with Lance’s nonsense, and his face is still a gift to mankind. He turns his head back into his knees. Takes more deep breaths. Faces pretty boy.

“I just wanted you to know that even though I feel your hair is evolutionarily incorrect and that it should’ve been left in the eighties where it belongs, I am still willing to help you with your arson,” says Lance solemnly. “You could be a con man with that face. Take care of it, okay?”

Pretty boy’s expression has not changed, save for dialing up its unimpressed setting. “Right,” he says. He sighs. “Since I doubt you’re going to leave me alone, you can stay, I guess.” He adjusts his gloves. Lance winces. They’re _fingerless._

“The things I do for a pretty face,” says Lance under his breath.

Pretty boy glares at him. “Did you say something?”

“No sir, go ahead, sir,” says Lance, straightening up.

Pretty boy indicates his crates. “These,” he says in clarification, with a hint of fondness, “are fireworks.”

Lance waits for further explanation. Pretty boy doesn’t deign to give any. He squats, pulling up the waistband of his black skinny jeans, and picks up an honest to god blowtorch.

Lance takes a quick step back, holding up his hands. “Come on, friend, buddy, pal, amigo. Just because I thought in my own mind that I wanted to get set on fire, I didn’t mean it literally? I imagine the burn scars would hurt? And I don’t think I’m up for that? I’m sorry for pissing you off?”

Pretty boy scowls, but he seems more bewildered than anything. “Um,” he says, getting back up. “I’m not gonna just fucking blast you with a blowtorch. I’m done with detention centers, thanks.”

Lance coughs. “Listen, buddy, you’re not doing real well on improving my confidence for you.” Lance knew that the arrest could be for non-violent reasons, but mentioning  ‘detention center’ and ‘blast with a blowtorch’ in the same sentence was more than a little concerning. Even if detention center sounded like something out of the room at the end of the hall at a middle school.

“You’re free to leave any time,” pretty boy says, clicking his tongue. He looks away, and Lance notices pretty boy’s hands are flexing open and closed.

Ah. Lance probably said something wrong. Again. A real shocker.

Recovering quickly, Lance pulls out his finger guns in one clean sweep. “It’s all fine with me, sweetheart. You do you, yeah?”

Pretty boy blinks. His shoulders seem to have unconsciously released some tension. “You should probably step back,” he advises.

“I said I wasn’t scared of—” 

Pretty boy had cleanly struck a match, opened the gas valve of the blowtorch, and set fire to the released gas.

Lance gapes. Pretty boy inspects the long, pulsing ball of orange. It’s holding remarkably steady, even for pretty boy using his body to shield it from the wind.

“You seem to be pretty used to this,” says Lance, eyes wide.

Pretty boy shrugs noncommittally. “I like setting things on fire,” he says.

“Oh. Cool,” Lance says, voice edging dangerously high. His ears feel like lamplights attached to the sides of his head.

“Yeah, well,” says pretty boy, smiling for the first time that night. His face is illuminated by the heat of the flame, the reddish orange light casting him in an otherworldly glow. His cheeks blush red, his eyes shine. “Watch this.”

 

 

 

 

 

Later down the line Lance will have vague recollections of pretty boy lighting each of the wicks in succession, backing away in between each as a small column of flame erupts briefly after being ignited. He’s sure it was very impressive (because, come on. Fireworks? What could be more lit than that?) but he can’t verify as much. He likes seeing fireworks as much as the next person, for sure. 

Pretty boy happens to be the most captivating thing alive when he’s watching things erupt into fire. Lance is pretty sure nobody could blame him for being distracted.

Pretty boy’s face is rapt with attention, blinking sparsely, bangs dusting his forehead. His short, thick eyelashes are unexplainably charming. His eyes house actual, honest sparkles. The line of his neck and jaw command attention as he tilts them up to watch the sky.

“So,” Lance says, in what he hopes is a suave voice after the last of the display has been launched. The pair of them are lying in the sand, a safe distance away from the shells. “You have a license for this stuff, then? That’s pretty cool.”

Pretty boy, who had been gazing at the stars, turns his head to the right to talk to Lance. “A license,” he echoes. “Yeah. I. Got one of those a while ago.”

Lance stares back. Then he closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. “Well,” he says. “I think there’s some safety precautions that you’re ignoring. But I’m not here to lecture you.”

“Like you can say anything,” pretty boy snipes. “What are you doing out here so late?”

Lance hums. He notices pretty boy’s tongue is remarkably looser compared to half an hour ago. “What’s your name, again?” he answers instead, changing the subject.

Pretty boy squints, and Lance knows his attempt was not subtle. Pretty boy lets it go. “I didn’t tell you,” he says.

“You should,” says Lance. He lets out a huge yawn, stretching his arms. Damp collects at the edges of his eyes. “I’ve been calling you Mullet Man in my head.”

Pretty boy doesn’t look altogether pleased at this information. Eh, think Lance idly. It’s not like pretty boy can read minds, anyway.

After the silence stretches a little too long, Lance moves to talk about something else the exact same time pretty boy says, succint, “Keith Kogane.”

Keith’s looking back up at the sky. From beside him, Lance finds it easier to note the little details in his face. Keith’s mouth is set, his shoulders slightly hunched, nose scrunched. He looks cold.

“Alright, _Keith_ ,” says Lance, tone teasing. “Where do you even get fireworks in the middle of December? And in California? That’s pretty illegal, bro.”

“For normal people,” says Keith. The truly remarkable thing, Lance thinks, is that Keith can say “normal people” and not sound like an asshole. “This is kind of my job. New Years is coming up and everything.” He pauses. “It’s not like I’m bothering anybody. The nearest house is about two miles away.”

Lance lets out a tiny laugh. “It’s great I came out here, then, huh? Now you don’t gotta be watching this in the dark alone.”

“That wouldn’t be a problem,” Keith says. “It’d be preferable. You’re kind of obnoxious.”

Silence. There are some things, however, that sound unequivocally asshole-ish no matter who the one saying it is.

Lance chances a glance at Keith again. His eyebrows are furrowed, the way they were before.

“Look,” says Lance. “That was kind of uncalled for.”

Usually Lance would take those kind of comments in stride, but he is just not feeling it today. A fraction of his earlier bitterness is creeping back in his bones, the wind cementing it there. Even when he’s 50% more subdued than normal, his personality is still that grating? For fuck’s sakes, what’s he got to do, just stop talking all together?

He waits. Keith is still looking at the goddamn sky, and while Lance similarly enjoys stargazing, at the moment he can’t help but tiredly hope that one of them would spontaneously implode. Though Keith would like that, he figures.

Lance gets up and dusts the back of jeans. He’s completely ready to turn back where he came from and leave stupid beautiful Keith on the sand, with his dumb pyrotechnics and dumber mullet, when Keith says, “Sorry.”

The apology comes out rough, like Keith’s entirely used to forming it and is using sheer force to convey his intentions. It shoots out with sincerity, tinged with embarrassment. 

Lance sits back down. “Okay.”

Keith sits up. Leans his head on his knees. “Okay,” he says. Moonlight shines through his bangs. A strip of hair falls down his face.

Lance smiles softly. “Okay,” he repeats. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I really feel like McDonald’s right now.”


	2. keith: hi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> american fast food restaurants after two o'clock are liminal spaces

Lance helps Keith clean up the fireworks and load it up in the back of an old black station wagon (“I borrowed it from a friend,” Keith explains) and polishes off a few snack bags Keith had brought, though he was absolutely forbidden from the Calbee shrimp chips. Lance helps himself to Cheese Cheetos instead, because, like some kind of heathen, Keith thinks Hot Cheetos are too spicy for him. Lance considers “remotely spicy” as some medium hot sauce, not fucking _Hot Cheetos_. Lance is embarrassed for him.

“How good is your spice tolerance,” says Lance, almost afraid of the answer.

“Like, with noodles, or something?” Keith asks, caught off guard by the question. Lance nods. “Then just some pepper and Sriracha, I guess. Or fried pepper and lemongrass.”

Which. Isn’t bad, exactly. Or good. But that _doesn’t explain why somebody couldn’t handle Hot Cheetos?_

Motherfuck. Even Pidge isn’t that bad, and she’s whiter than mayonnaise.

So as they drive to the nearest fast food place, Lance observes the dark, near-empty roads flashing by from the passenger seat. The ambiance is nice. The two of them are sitting in a certain kind of peace only accessible past the witching hour. This city is apparently remote enough that they don’t bother with streetlights, so what’s visible is mostly illuminated by the car’s headlights. 

Licking his fingers, Lance turns on the radio with his other hand.

“What kind of bullshit is this,” says Lance. 

Keith frowns. “It’s music,” he says, hovering a hand over the stereo system in protection.

“It’s some weird emo shit, is what it is,” Lance says. He clicks his tongue. “Look, you can listen to Prawn Tick At The Dish Cold or Fall Out Boy on your own time. I’m sorry, but I’m commandeering the radio system.” He switches the CD function to some generic FM station. Lance lights up. “It’s Britney, bitch!” he says in enthusiasm.

Keith levels him with an unimpressed gaze. Maintaining eye contact (Lance has dim concerns about the car possibly crashing), he places a finger on the radio knob. Clicks to a different track.

Lance gasps as the beginning chords play. “You made a _mixtape_ ,” he whispers. “With _My Chemical Romance_ in it _._ ”

Keith shrugs. He’s smiling again. God, Lance is never going to get tired of looking at him. “My car, my rules,” says Keith. And _winks_.

This, Lance thinks, out of breath, is a wonderful way to die. In an enclosed space with a beautiful boy that _winks._ That looks good in black and _winks_. “I can’t believe you _winked_ ,” breathes Lance.

Keith, starting to gain speed, turns to him quizzically. “No?” he says. “I don’t know how to wink?”

Lance groans in despair. “That’s not fair,” he whines. “You can’t just eject my soul from my body like that and then lie about it, Jesus. This is my life we’re talking about, not stealing extra samples from Costco.”

Keith releases a puff of air from his nose suspiciously reminiscent of a laugh. “I’m not lying. I tried a few times in the mirror, but I just end up blinking.”

Lance shudders as his mind conjures up Keith leaning in a bathroom mirror and attempting to wink at his reflection. He almost blacks out at the mental image.

He shuts his eyes and hums and distracts himself. Maybe too well, actually—as the minutes trickle by, he’s already drifting in and out of consciousness. When he’s a second away from actually falling asleep, Keith flicks him lightly on the forehead.

“GWAHH,” says Lance, blinking. He wipes away the drool trailing down the side of his mouth. “I’m awake!” 

“That’s great,” Keith deadpans. “We’re here.” 

And indeed, in front of Lance is that pole with the familiar golden arch. When they enter the restaurant itself, Lance sees a mop supporting a napping employee’s weight. Lance hopes that it doesn’t fall over. There’s a middle aged man in the corner next to the restrooms eating a Big Mac and scrolling his phone, and an old couple sitting and chatting quietly together.

Lance pats his pockets. His eyebrows shoot past his hairline. He pats his pockets more aggressively. 

“What,” says Keith, watching Lance slap his head and chest in vague bemusement.

“Keith,” says Lance. “Buddy. Pal.”

“What,” Keith says again, wary.

“I left my wallet at home, my guy. Please buy some food for me because I am like this close to passing out.” Lance puts his hands together and gets on his knees. “ _Please_. What would Rihanna do.”

“Uh,” says Keith. “I don’t know Rihanna well enough to answer that.”

“Plea—”

“Yeah, okay,” says Keith, cutting Lance off. “Hold on.” Digging through his pockets, Keith procures multiple balls of lint, a Yugioh card, his cell phone, and $2.83.

They stare down at the loose change sitting in Keith’s palms.

Lance picks up the Yugioh card and studies it. “How much do you think this is worth,” he says, hesitant.

Keith snatches it back. “No,” he says. He blows a piece of lint off it. “I forgot this was still in there,” he mutters.                                                                                               

“Why is there—”

“There’s some money in the car, I think. Give me a second,” Keith interrupts. He dumps the money in Lance’s hands and walks out the door.

Lance rolls the change and dollar bill around his palm awkwardly. As he doesn’t have his phone, he can’t casually take it out and pretend he has something to do instead of wait for a stranger to find money for him to eat. Actually, having only this much money on your person is usually a cause for concern, isn’t it? Lance is pretty sure fireworks don’t come cheap.

No, no. It couldn’t be that Keith was buying pyrotechnics at the cost of his own basic needs? Maybe he forgot his wallet at home, like Lance? Maybe he got robbed? Actually, wasn’t that pretty concerning by itself? Keith seemed to be the kind of person that got into those situations.

Lance’s habits of overthinking continue into uncomfortably realistic daydreams of Keith blowing up the White House with C4 from the black market, or wherever the heck bombs came from. As it transitions into a particularly moving segment where he hits a redemption arc and starts professionally doing fireworks, real-life Keith coughs and Lance snaps out of it.

Keith is standing at the register and is raising his eyebrows. Lance hurries over with the money, and apologetically places it into the cashier’s hands.

The cashier looks in vague distaste at the coins, and begins counting them out in addition to the five dollar bill that Keith had evidently procured. Handing over the receipt, she asks ‘to stay or to go’ and rattles off a generic ‘enjoy your order’.

Lance goes ahead and chooses a counter seat facing the windows, which has a view of the fluorescently lit drive through. Keith looks at the tall stool with some apprehension. 

“Oh, come on,” says Lance. He makes a show of looking down his nose. “Just get a leg up on one of the bars. I know you’re short, but this can’t be that hard.”

Keith glares. “Who said I couldn’t?” Swinging himself up, he adds, “I’m just not used to chairs whose seats go up to my ribs.”

“Weak,” says Lance. Stifling a yawn, he asks, “So what’d you order?”

Keith, legs crossed, shuffles the receipt out from his pockets where he’d stuffed it. “Uh, large fries, two McChickens, and a Happy Meal toy. I didn’t know if we had enough left for a drink, so I didn’t order one.”

Ignoring the fact that Keith evidently considers a toy more important to buy in a restaurant than a beverage, Lance’s eyebrows arch in interest. “A Happy Meal toy? What are they selling this time?”

“A plastic Voltron figure,” Keith informs him. “There was something for My Little Pony, too, but I just stuck with the figure.”

Lance squeezes his eyes shut, presses a finger to his temple. “Hold on. I know what Voltron is. It’s that cartoon, right? Came out in 2011? My little sister used to be obsessed with it.”

Lance has his eyes open again with Keith replies. He’s swinging his legs under the counter. Lance cracks a smile at the sight. “That was a remake. I kind of liked the original 80’s anime better. You know.” Keith snorts laughter. “I kind of got into it in elementary school because the main character had the same name as I did. Keith Kogane. Weird, huh?”

Lance nods in fervent agreement. “I was freaked out, too. I don’t know if it’s the same in the original, but in Voltron Force there were three characters with the same name as my friends and I? Freaky shit.”

Keith looks interested. He angles his body towards Lance, away from the windows. “Yeah? What are their names?”

“Well, Pidge and Hunk and me. It was super weird seeing these characters on TV calling each other our names.” Lance chuckles sheepishly, one hand rubbing the back of his head. “I don’t remember much about the actual plot.”  
  
“I didn’t actually watch Voltron Force, so I don’t know, either.” Keith appears to be thinking hard. He holds up a hand. “Your name was Lance McSomething, right?”

“McClain,” Lance corrects, mildly miffed.

Keith’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s the name of one of the characters, too. Last name and all.”

All ears now, Lance leans in. “So what’s the name of the re—"

“Order 487,” the cashier announces loudly. “487.”

Their faces are inches away from each other. Keith gives Lance a Look, eyebrows raised, gaze questioning. Lance does not know the answer as to what, but if he gets up now, he feels like he’d be losing somehow.

Lance Looks back. Direct eye contact, fixed on the sharp blue-grey of Keith’s eyes. Keith is still Looking. Lance is hyper-aware of the sensation of Keith’s warm breath on his nose. Lance is also hyper-aware of the rough sand in his butt crack.

“487,” the cashier repeats, irate. She’s burning a hole in the back of Lance’s head, but he stays rooted to his seat.

Surprisingly, Keith is the one that breaks the staring contest first. The action couldn’t have been smoother. He cleanly diverts his stare and gets up to retrieves the tray. He hops back onto the stool and nonchalantly begins ripping open a ketchup packet to squeeze onto his sandwich.

Lance is getting a headache from how unnecessarily complex he feels the situation has become. “Okay,” he says. “What was that just now?”

Keith dunks three fries in a puddle of ketchup he’d spilled onto a napkin. “Hm?”

“Don’t ‘hm’ me. It may be ass o’clock, but I know sexual tension when I see it.” Lance unwraps his own sandwich, frowning.

“What sexual tension? I was asking you if you were going to get the order,” says Keith easily. His constant background anger seems to have been dissipated by the food. “You weren’t saying anything, so I thought you wanted me to get it.”

Lance splutters, waving his McChicken in the air for effect. A single piece of lettuce floats gently to the ground. “No way was that a ‘are you going to get the order’ Look! That was definitely an ‘are you going to kiss me’ Look!”

Keith, clearly more intent on polishing off his meal than he is on Lance’s perceived babbling, gets the next words out while half-paying attention. “Yeah, sure.” Keith is already done with his sandwich and is making his move on the rest of the french fries.

Lance, not to be outdone, starts taking aggressive bites out of his own. His ravenousness is catching up with him; not fifteen seconds later, his mouth full to bursting.  

When Lance is finished with devouring his sandwich, he realizes with alarm that only half the fries are left, and launches a full scale attack on what he can get.

Keith, hackles raised, does the same. 

Soon, they’re down to the last fry. With no hesitation, Keith snaps it into his mouth just before Lance shoots out his hand to grab for it.

“Hey!” waffles Lance in indignation through his mouthful of fries.

“Tough luck, buddy,” Keith smirks. Lance chokes on his potatoes.

Keith watches with polite horror as Lance hacks through mostly-chewed food. Some of it is very close to getting spat out, so Lance makes a valiant effort to swallow it down. It works, and thank god because there is no way Lance can live with himself if a cute boy he hardly knows (even if they’re _Keith_ ) has to watch him regurgitate.

Keith hesitantly nudges a stack of napkins towards Lance. Lance snatches the first two and wipes his mouth.

“That was gross,” says Lance solemnly.

Keith’s brows furrow together. “Are you…okay?”

“No,” says Lance, sadly. “What’s up with your eyebrows, man? They’re so _expressive_. And your face looks like _that_.”

“Blaming all your problems on me isn’t going to help anything.” Keith looks like he wants to say something ruder, but is stopping himself on account of how pathetic Lance is being.  

“I guess,” says Lance, with remarkably little fight in the words. “I’m just gonna. Go to the bathroom real quick and wash my mouth out.”

“Okay,” says Keith. His expression is completely nonplussed. “You do that.”

“I will,” says Lance. He walks to the bathroom.

 

 

 

 

 

In one of the stalls, surprisingly clean for a fast food place, Lance scrapes off flaked sand from his body. He pinches himself to stay awake at random intervals, seeing as he doesn’t actually trust himself to not fall headfirst into a toilet. When he’s done, he mutters a quick apology for whichever employee has to clean up after him. Lance, for his conscience’s sake, sincerely hopes it’s not the one falling asleep on her mop.

In front of the mirror, Lance lets the water from the sink flow and splashes it onto his face. When he’s been suitably refreshed, he turns the spout off and claps both hands onto his cheeks. The sound resounds loudly in the bathroom, which evidently has some very good acoustics. It sounds like a crack of thunder.

Lance hopes, distantly, that the walls are soundproof, and that if they weren’t, that nobody would bother to check for the source of the noise. He doesn’t exactly need somebody to judge him for being one hell of a hot mess. He’s doing enough of that for the whole world, thanks.

The salt from the sea, dried into his skin, is still itching under his shirt.

Clapping his cheeks once more for good measure, Lance lets a slow, steady breath blow out from his lips. He breathes in, and out, and in, and out.

Bracing his arms onto the sink counter, he takes stock of his face. His hair is a natural disaster, sticking every which way. It would look worse if his hair was longer, but even as is, he looks like he tumbled around in a washing machine and then got attacked by a badger. Lance combs his fingers through the mess, until it looks less like a hurricane hit him and more like a deliberate style. The skin under his eyes is soft and sallow, already bruise dark from days of sleeplessness. Lance looks closer, and—this can not possibly get worse, his mustache is growing in.

“AAAGGGHHHH,” says Lance, whisper-shouting. He slides to his feet, and through his haze he feels grateful that the floor is, thank all that is good and holy, not sticky.

Why had Lance thought Keith had been flirting when Lance looked like a personified dumpster fire and Keith was one of those people you dropped what you were doing and stared at when you saw them on the street? 

Not that something like that had ever stopped Lance before, but. Embarrassment was something he only ever occurred to think of in retrospect, but Lance really can’t help it when he looks like he spent three days without access to a shower.

Lance can barely hear himself think. His aggressive self-care routine usually ensures that he goes to bed at ten on the dot, and, surprise, he might have fucked with his sleep schedule. Even staying up with his friends for movie marathons never lasted much past 12:30. 

“Aaaaaghhhh,” whisper-screams Lance again, less emotion this time. Noting with distaste that the bathroom floor feels just as unforgiving to his ass bones as the tiles suggest, he pulls himself up with the help of the sink counter. Splashing on water once more and spending about three minutes at the hot air dryer, he steps sluggishly out of the bathroom.

Keith is exactly where Lance left him, and is carefully inspecting the Voltron figurine.

Looking up when Lance reseats himself, Keith says, nonchalant, “You good?”

Lance fixes him with a Look. “No,” he says. “Everything is shit.” He pauses. Takes stock of Keith’s nonplussed expression. “That’s a bit heavy, actually. I meant that I’m fine.”

Keith places the figurine back on the tray. “I can’t help you, there,” he says. “I’m kind of a mess.”

Lance cracks a grin. A wet heat is building behind his eyes, and he doesn’t know why. “I said that I was fine, didn’t I?” He works his jaw. “But if I wasn’t, misery loves company, you know.” 

Keith snorts in surprise, and it gradually builds up into something rib-shaking. The other occupants of the McDonald’s are watching them. Lance is spellbound; his mouth is hanging open, and he’s dimly aware that only Beyoncé herself could make him tear his eyes away. It’s—an experience. Bearing witness to this feels like his heart is being cleansed. Lance doesn’t think he can get tired of this sound; it’s so bright and sincerely mirthful that it’s hard to breathe.

And. It’s not that Lance is unused to people reacting positively to his jokes. This isn’t even a joke. It’s not even one of his more clever witticisms. It’s just Lance being his regular snarky self. And. It’s. Not that he feels unappreciated. But this? It’s clawing at an itch he hadn’t known he had.

When Keith is done with his fucking choir of angels, he wipes a tear from his eye and supports his head on his interlocked fingers. He’s looking down at the table, so his face isn’t visible, but his shoulders are shaking.

Lance says, dazedly, “You alright? I—spend the rest of my life with me.”

Keith brings his head up at that. His eyes are shining, fond. “I think I can give you a night, at least.”

Damn, Lance hadn’t thought that he’d actually get this far. 

“That can, uh, be arranged,” he manages. 

Keith smiles again. Lance briefly contemplates running back to the bathroom to vomit up the horde in his stomach.


	3. good friends track your location when you are lost and bring you home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i love the garrison trio v much

Light is creeping in through his eyelids. Lance groans, cracking his neck. He lifts an lid and surveys his surroundings. Not seeing the familiarity of his dorm room, Lance assumes he’s still dreaming and turns over to sleep again. Instead of his pillow smelling like his usual musk and laundry detergent, he’s met with redwood forest and Febreeze. 

Eyes flying open, Lance is met with the pillow. This is definitely not his blue striped pillow. This pillow is white and generic. And this bed has way too many layers.

Now, ignoring the fact that Lance would never have any of this tasteless bed-clothing if his life depended on it, he realizes that it’s a bit chilly. Which would be exacerbated by the fact that he’s naked, he supposes.

Okay. He’s naked. He’s not somewhere familiar and—okay. He had sex with the most perfect boy to exist. He can deal with that. The perfect boy has left. He can also deal with that. He’ll stew in what that means later. Lance doesn’t have much experience in this area but he knows that this situation usually doesn’t bode well for future relations.

Finding his clothes, which he distinctly remembers tearing off to the floor, folded neatly on the bedside drawer, is a nice surprise. He sees a yellow sticky note stuck to the top, reading: _I have to go to work. I paid for the room already. The beach is a bit far from here, so I took your car keys and drove your car here for you. Gas is running kind of low. I had a nice time. -Keith._

The note is short, succint, to the point. The handwriting is angular and in all caps, and the last bit is spaced farther apart that the beginning, as if Keith had hesitated to write it.

That was nice of him, though. Lance is kind of sore, so he wouldn’t exactly be looking forward to finding his way to the beach. 

This might be what you’d call a one night stand. Lance’s last one hadn’t been as much as a whirlwind, and Lance can feel in his bones that he’ll be pining for at least a month. Lance is not regretting any of it. God, Keith is like something out of a dream. 

Before Lance leaves, he takes an hour long, scalding soak in the hotel bathroom. He’s been subsisting on showers for what seems like ever, and this is a welcome change. Automatically scooping up the complimentary bath items, Lance heads back to the bedside table. While tugging on his jeans and wincing at the feel of day-old underwear, Lance notices the Voltron figure left on the desk tucked in the corner.

Lance makes his way over to it tentatively, picks it up. It’s exactly the quality you’d expect from a McDonald’s Happy Meal, but it looks cool, at least. And the limbs are removable, he finds.

Lance knows that if he takes this with him, he’ll remember Keith being adorable and talking about some robot cartoon. He is aware that this will extend his pining for at least another month. On the other hand, if he doesn’t, it will be a gigantic waste and he will _not_ get to pine for at least another month.

It’s not really a question. Lance stuffs it into his jacket pocket, grabs his keys, and heads out. Not before quickly dialing Hunk and rushing out “I’mfinedon’tworry” and hanging up before Hunk can reply, though.

 

 

 

 

 

The thing about gas prices is that they are higher than his friend Timmy on a Saturday. Unfortunate, because Lance is flat-ass broke at the moment. He considers asking the family in the nearby diner to give him some money, but that would be weird. He also considers just asking reception for a cup and begging on the streetside, but that really isn’t going to cover the cost in enough time.

So he loiters at a nearby children’s park and partakes in the swings while ignoring the mothers with babies looking at him in suspicion. He can’t get to swinging very high, on account of the fact that his feet are too close to the ground, so he awkwardly pushing dragging his feet and trying from there. When he resigns himself to the fact that it won’t work, he stands on the seat and starts swinging. 

While he does lose his footing, Lance lands spectacularly, i.e. on his ass, so he has to get going before some three year olds can burn some shame into the back of his head. On the bright side, he finds a crumpled five dollar bill buried under the sand where his nose had landed, so there’s that.

Lance actually is starting to enjoy himself. It’s been a while since he’d had free reign to do what he wanted in a city he had yet to explore. He can worry about transportation later. He starts by jogging down the surrounding area. 

Seaside towns always had a quaint air around them—the worn in feel of the buildings, the burn of salt in the air. Lance breathes it in. He begins working up a sweat after he passes a kindergarten, and stops when he finds an old Ben & Jerry’s. Grinning as he walks up to the store, he takes note of the warm atmosphere inside. Stainless steel tables and chairs, and the display case with dozens of different flavors.

Lance sighs in relish after the transaction for his mint chocolate double scoop chocolate dipped cone. He’s starving, and while aware that he should probably head for a fast food place or convenience store to pick up a decent meal, Lance’s impulse control clearly doesn’t agree. Turning around to head for one of the open tables, Lance stops in his tracks when he comes face to face with his two very best friends, Hunk and Pidge.

“Why,” says Lance, weakly. “It’s my two very best friends, Hunk and Pidge. What brings you here?”

Pidge glares at him. Her eyes smolder with anger. “Taking your dumb ass home, what else?” Her hair is unkempt, flying every which way, but with a hat to cover most of it. Her hands are clenched into tiny fists.

Even Hunk looks upset. “You should’ve told us. We were really worried, you know?” 

When Hunk is sad, Lance feels as if he has been mauled by a bear. Hunk gets sad with his whole being, face transforming into that of a kicked puppy, body slumping into itself. Usually, when Hunk gets sad, somebody winds up dead, courtesy of he and Pidge. Lance prays that Pidge picks up the slack because he feels worse that he can put into words. It probably wouldn’t take much convincing, either.

“Yeah,” says Lance, drained again. “Yeah. Let’s step out for a little.” He looks down at his cone, forlorn. It doesn’t look as good as it had just a minute earlier.

So Lance leads them back to a bench relatively secluded that he’d spotted a while back, and plops himself down. “Okay,” he says. “I deserve it. Lay it on me. But first of all, please tell me how you found me.”

“I traced your phone call,” says Pidge, flat.

“Should’ve seen that coming,” reflects Lance.

“And as much as I would love to rip into your ass right now,” continues Pidge, tapping her toes violently, “Hunk says we should let you explain yourself.”

He had such amazing friends. He knows not everyone has people that would travel hours just to pick up their dumbass friend that pigeonholed himself into the mess in the first place. He’s choked up again.

Lance considers deflecting the question, but Hunk stares into him and Lance knows he can’t. He owes at least that much.

“Okay,” says Lance. “I got wound up like a pissbaby and ran away. Everything just got to be too much, I guess.” He looks down at his Converse. The laces on one foot had come undone.

“Now listen here, you fuck,” begins Pidge. Hunk places a hand on her shoulder. She shuts her mouth and reverts to glaring.

“Lance,” says Hunk, clear but gentle. Lance winces. “Lance. Look at me.”

Lance does not. “Lance,” repeats Hunk, insistent. Lance raises his head and comes face to face with Hunk.

“It’s dangerous to drive when your emotions aren’t stable,” says Hunk, firm. “You could’ve killed yourself.”

Lance half-expects Pidge to pull a ‘don’t we all crave death’ kind of joke. She doesn’t. He must’ve really messed this up.

“And if you need to have some space, just tell us. And maybe not go so far when you still have class the next day,” continues Hunk.

“And bring your goddamn wallet and phone,” adds Pidge aggressively. “So you don’t get fucking stranded.”

“You guys,” says Lance. He stops, eats some of his ice cream. Green is dripping down his fingers in a gooey mess. “You guys,” continue Lance, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry I made you skip class to go find me.”

Hunk cracks a grin. “What I’m willing to do for you idiots,” he says.

Pidge claps her hand together, evidently done with the sentimentalism. “I’m hungry,” says Pidge. “I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday.” And before Lance can wince in guilt, she goes on to say, blithe, “I saw this pretty good Chinese place.” She hooks Lance’s wallet out her pocket. “And you’re paying.”

 

 

 

 

“That sounds fake,” declares Pidge, stuffing her face with eggrolls. “Keith Kogane is a cryptid if I ever heard one. Are you sure you didn’t make him up?”

“Trust me,” says Lance, dreamy. “I couldn’t imagine that mullet if I tried.”

The air cleared up quickly after everyone had said what they needed to say, and Pidge, apparently deciding that Lance had suffered enough, had asked what he did for the last fifteen or so hours, anyway.

“He sounds sketchy, bro,” observes Hunk. “Where does he even get the fireworks?”  
  
“I don’t know, and he didn’t tell me,” Lance says. “He’s cute, so as far as I’m concerned, he could have stolen it from the government and I’d drive the escape van.”

“Your mom would kill you,” reminds Hunk.

“Did I stutter,” prompts Lance.

Lance helpfully leaves out the part where Lance had also blown Keith’s brains out, because he’s a good friend and he knows his friends wouldn’t appreciate that particular detail.

“How’d you guys get here?” says Lance after a few minutes of silence, stuffing food into their mouths. 

“I asked Shiro to borrow his car,” says Pidge. “He said he’d let me as long as I wasn’t the one driving it, but but he’s like, seven, so how seriously can I take him, right?”

“You do drive kind of crazy, Pidge,” says Hunk. “Remember that time you crashed into that electric pole while backing up?”

As Pidge launches into in impassioned defense of herself, Lance thinks, again, how grateful he is for these two.


	4. lance is weak for pretty boys? back the fuck off?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm not saying lance will kiss anything that moves but nothing has ever proved me wrong

Two and a half months later, Lance has to say, with some regret, that he is not yet over Keith Kogane. Unfortunate, because he’d very much like to be over Keith Kogane. Lance, along with the fact that he has a thing for cool, dark beauties, has a tendency to romanticize events that occur during the witching hour.

It’s not really helping when he sees a cute girl on campus, steers right over to say hi, and then remembers that the girl’s hair is the exact color as Keith’s. While the cute girl is waiting for him to put on his sick charms, he stands there, dumbstruck, and the girl leaves along with his hopes of ever finding anyone to ever love and cherish romantically.

Lance is really upset at Keith Kogane, because Keith Kogane is ruining his love life.

It’s not even that Keith is constantly on his mind, because he isn’t. It’s that Keith only comes into his mind whenever he damn well pleases, more often at the beginning, and sparser now, but each time Lance is hit with a vivid remembrance of how he feels when Keith laughs and Lance is Bitter. If Keith himself appeared before him, Lance was ready to start swinging. 

“You okay, Lance?” asks Casey in concern. Lance is listlessly floating belly up in the pool, long after the others in the swim team had already left.

Casey, one of Lance’s teammates, was kind enough to stay after with him to keep him company.

“Because if you don’t mind, I kind of have to lock up the locker room, so if you could maybe hurry it up—”

“I’m distraught, Casey,” says Lance. All that’s in his field of vision is the ceiling of the pool with the blue of the water reflecting off of the beams. “I want to date somebody.”

Casey snorts. “Don’t we all,” he says. Apparently sensing that Lance is not going to leave for a while at least, he situates himself on the edge of the pool and dips in his legs. “Then do it. I don’t think you’ll have an issue finding someone.”

“That’s not the _problem_ , Casey,” moans Lance. He kicks his legs and flounders mournfully. “I want to date somebody in _particular_.”

“Tough luck,” says Casey. He kicks water at Lance.

“But _Casey_ —”

“Lance. If you keep saying my name like that, we’re probably going to have to make out.”

Lance turns to face him. Casey is looking at him, unimpressed. Lance remembers that Casey is hot and that Lance had once included him in a powerpoint presentation as proof as to why attractive people should be blasted to the moon. “Well,” Lance says, voice a little higher than usual. He lifts himself out of the water. “It can’t be helped, I guess.”


	5. tfw you meet your estranged lover and attack him but it goes viral bc your stoner friend is an asshole

As he walks into his dorm, Lance says, loudly, “Hunk, you will not _believe_ who made an ass of himself today—”

“Is it you,” says one of his dormmates.

“Yes, it is, Timmy. Don’t test me like this, Timmy,” says Lance, turning around to reply.

The common room has only about three people, so Lance has no problem spotting Keith playing on his DS Lite in all his rumpled glory in the corner. His eyes are fixed to the screen.

Lance takes a deep breath. The cause of 30% of his problems has just appeared before him. Okay.

“I’MMA START SWINGING,” he hollers. Marching forward, Lance grabs a couch cushion, shoving the Timmy over to get to the one under him and thwacks Keith down the side of his head with it.

Keith’s head gets smacked over sideways from the impact. The force of it makes an audible, dull sound. Keith drops his device onto his lap, which topples onto the floor when he springs up and catches Lance in a chokehold. Like he thinks he’s John Cena.

Timmy starts hooting and breaks out his camera.

Lance’s neck feels like it’s going to snap from the pressure. “Hold the fuck up, buddy,” Lance says, spitting out the words. “I mean I kind of deserve it, but motherfuck—”

Jane, who Lance had thought was his friend, is laughing so hard, she falls onto the floor. Lance suddenly really, really hates Jane.

Keith releases him and Lance falls onto the carpet, gasping. “What the fresh hell was that!” shouts Keith. He’s scowling, anger carving deep imprints on his face. “You don’t just go up to people! And clobber them! You dumb fuck!”

“Fine! I’m sorry!” barks Lance, thumping his back to get some feeling back in his lungs. “But in my defense! _You’re_ the dumb fuck!”

“ _I_ wasn’t the one who—” Recognition flashes in Keith’s eyes. His expression smooths out. “Lance?”

“ _Yeah!_ ”

Keith looks down in contemplation. “So you’re doing okay, then.” Keith coughs. “I didn’t know you went here.”

Lance squints. Now that Keith is here, in his actual presence, he’s not actually sure what he wants to be doing. Does Lance want to kiss him? Uh, he kind of has been mooning for two moons, so yeah? Kind of? But, he thinks, sour, glaring at Timmy’s iPhone 7, he has an audience. And a few people had came out to see the commotion.

On the other hand, Lance is still Bitter, but he thinks maybe he will be less so if he gets a kiss out of this. Or, Lance thinks, staring down at the discarded couch cushion, maybe he can get another thwack instead.

Lance is inching towards it, when Keith asks, more awkwardly, “So, do you mind telling me why you went to hit me? I thought we left pretty amicably.”

“Yeah, fine,” says Lance, sour. He hugs the cushion to his chest to prevent himself from doing anything rash. “It was great. That’s the problem, asshole. Can you try being less, like, everything I’ve ever dreamed of? That’d help me a lot, thanks.”

Sarah wolf-whistles.

"Fuck you, Sarah! See if I ever let you use my skin-care set ever again!"

Keith is lost. He starts to say something, but thinks better of it and shuts his mouth. Climbing back onto the couch, he picks up his DS and continues with his game. And pretends Lance isn’t there.

“That’s right, back off, you mullet,” grumbles Lance. He feels this should be a victory, but he’s somehow feeling like he’s lost in some incomprehensible way.

At a loss for what to do, Lance picks up the bag he’d discarded to launch his attack and pulls out the Voltron figurine. He’s aware it’s vaguely pathetic to tote around a Happy Meal that he’d gotten from an ex-fling, but Lance himself is pathetic, damn it, and he’s nothing if not thorough.

“You left this in the hotel room, dick munch,” sighs Lance. He drops it on Keith’s lap, not waiting to see his reaction, and pushes past some people in the hall, drags himself to his room, curls up in his blankets, and drops off.

 

 

 

 

Hunk, bless his heart, had been baking. He still is, technically, but even if they were slightly raw, the end result was that Lance got cookies. 

“These are good, Hunk,” Lance says. “These are good cookies.”

“I don’t think that’s good for you,” says Hunk. He glances at the toaster oven, which clearly indicates that the dough should cook for another seven minutes.

“I’m here for a good time, not a long time,” says Pidge. She sinks her teeth into a chocolate macadamia and her eyes fall closed in bliss. “If this is how I go, I couldn’t be happier.”

Hunk looks faintly pleased at that, behind the usual concern, and lets it go. “I guess once in a while won’t hurt,” he admits, popping out a premature piece himself.

Lance nods in satisfaction. “Now that we’ve covered the fact that we’re going to die early deaths,” he says, “let’s talk about me.”

“Yes, let’s,” drones Pidge, eyes still closed. “What’d you do this time, sport.”

“First of all, do you guys know who the guy in the common room was?” Lance waves his hands in emphasis. “The one with the mullet!”

“He’s Shiro’s friend. Came to visit,” Hunk replies. His eyes dart back to the toaster oven.

“Let me guess. It was Keith Kogane,” says Pidge.

“You’re right,” affirms Lance. He gazes mournfully at his hands, the cookie that had been there now gone. “It was Keith motherfucking Kogane.”

Pidge blinks. “Wow,” she says. She adjusts her glasses in inquisition, the glare of it blocking view of her eyes. “I was being sarcastic, but really? I honestly thought that he was some weird fever dream of yours. He _is_ cute, I guess?” Pidge had been in class, so she hadn’t been around to witness him getting completely owned. Lance thanks the stars for the small mercies.

“Pidge,” says Lance, scandalized. Placing a hand over his heart, he slides down the counter he had been sitting on with a flourish. “Children shouldn’t be speaking like this!”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “I’m a lesbian, Lance. I’m not going to start swooning over your boy toy.”

“You kind of can’t talk there, buddy. You had your first crush when you were four,” adds Hunk. He laughs. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get over how you got with Carol, remember when—”

“You know what I _do_ remember? When I made you guys sign a contract to not talk about anything from high school and back,” says Lance. “I framed it and hung it up on my wall. We can take go right now and look at it. But anyway. I hate Keith Kogane and I want him gone.” Lance straightens up. “He is gone, right?”

“I talked to him after you assaulted him,” says Hunk, his tone laced in quiet disapproval. “He says he’s transferring in, since the semester is almost over, and that Shiro’s helping him get situated.”

“WHAT,” shrieks Lance, the single word cracking near the end.

“DID ANYBODY RECORD THAT,” shrieks Pidge, immediately whipping out her phone and opening her social media. Lance knows for a fact that at least two people did. He saw it on his dash, retweeted at least fifteen times during the ten minutes he’d scrolled.

Timmy better watch his crusty ass.

 _“I’MMA START SWINGING,”_ Lance’s voice plays tinnily on Pidge’s phone. Pidge lights up like a Swedish Christmas goat.

“This has five thousand retweets already,” says Pidge, gleeful. “Timmy being a Vine star has some uses after all, rest in peace.”

Hunk cracks a smile, despite himself. “Someone tagged me in an edit where it’s the game cube meme thing, and then Keith gets attacked with the cushion.”

“Look at this,” Pidge cackles, and Lance has to watch a half minute video of just Keith choking him with his elbow on loop. He does not enjoy it. He steals Pidge’s phone and holds it above him, daring Pidge to take it back. She doesn’t, just glares at him, surly. So that’s one good thing that came out of today, Lance thinks, petty vindictiveness rising in his chest, until Pidge kicks him in the shin, grabs the phone back in the process, and then it disappears.

“My point,” says Lance, wheezing, “is that this boy has been terrorizing me long enough and I will stand for no more of it.” 

“It’s not like he _asked_ you to lie awake at night, thinking about him,” offers Hunk. He’s munching on some steaming cookies he hasn’t let cool.

Lance grabs another one for himself. “You’re supposed to back me up on this, bro,” complains Lance, stuffing a cookie in his mouth. “And I don’t do that!”

“Yet,” insinuates Pidge slyly.

Lance snorts, ruffling her hair despite the evil glare she give him. “Listen, don’t you want some milk with those cookies? It’ll help you grow, too.”

“Call me short one more time,” threatens Pidge, squashing her sneakers on Lance’s flip-flopped feet. “Really, do it.”

“He hasn’t really done anything to you, though,” Hunk reprimands. “He just moved to this city, and doesn’t really know anyone. Be nice, Lance.”

_“It was great. That’s the problem, asshole. Can you try being less, like, everything I’ve ever dreamed of? That’d help me a lot, thanks.”_

“Pidge. I swear to god, somebody's going to be missing their alarm clock tomorrow.”

“Do it, you fucking coward.”

Hunk eats another cookie and stares into the camera like he’s in The Office.


	6. this is all keith's fault somehow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what the fuck even is the ra?

And so, Lance reconciles himself to the fact that 1) not only is Keith going to be going to his school now when they originally met, like, three hours away, 2) Shiro might be a little disappointed in him since he picked a fight, and 3) not only is Keith going to his school, he’s going to be living in his dorm, but 4) not only in his dorm but right down the hall, which 5) is where Timmy is staying, which means 6) that Timmy will almost certainly tell Keith about more embarrassing things Lance has done, which will lead to 6) Lance running away to live in the foliage behind the school with the woodland creatures.

He won’t know what to tell his mom when he wastes all that tuition money, but at least he’ll never have to sit through anybody making fun of him ever again. As a nice bonus, he’ll never have to see Keith again, either.

As he’s going over the Plan while brushing his teeth in the communal bathroom, the RA comes in to get ready for bed as well. Or casually plot nefarious schemes, or whatever they do in their free time. It always was hard to tell with them.

“Hi, Lance,” says the RA, a hand pushing through their beautiful hair. “Mind if I join you?”

“You know I wouldn’t mind if you held me at gunpoint,” says Lance, long-suffering. He scrubs harder at his teeth.

The RA laughs, more amused than fazed. “I don’t know what to do with that information, so I’ll just go ahead, then.” They get out their toothbrush and squirt out a line of paste. Lance watches, his own brush held in between his teeth.

A minute goes by with the RA just minding their business and Lance just watching. Lance, while vaguely aware this could be called creepy, is also just contemplating how life always winds up having him meeting people he doesn’t want to, whether he can get out of this without confrontation, why somebody college-age would need to use Sensodyne, and, like. Jawlines.

When the RA is done, flossing and all, Lance still has absentminded white drool leaking down the side of his mouth. 

“Lance,” they say pleasantly. “Why don’t we have a talk.”

“I _guess,_ ” grumbles Lance, making his reluctance clear. He spits out froth down the sink, and gargles the rest out with tap water.

Fine. The RA is Shiro. Shiro’s not magically going to disappear if Lance doesn’t think his name. Lance had already tried that with his homosexual tendencies when he was in middle school. It didn’t work.

“What, Shiro,” grumbles Lance, again. They’re both seated on one of the couches in the common room, lit up by yellow lights. Lance is in his blue flannel pajama set his mom had bought for him at Costco, and Shiro in a simple white cotton tee and black shorts with ‘NASTY’ emblazoned in white on the butt. Lance would _like_ to be drinking his shitty instant hot chocolate packet with hot water to stave this over, but seeing as his teeth are freshly cleaned, he’s got to suffer without.

Shiro seems perfectly comfortable, legs tucked in and looking at Lance expectantly. “Nothing really,” Shiro says, calmly. His white poof is tilted with his head. “I just wanted to ask you if you had anything you wanted to tell me.”

Ah, there it is. “You’ve already seen the video, I don’t really know what more there is to say.”

“And I’ve talked to Keith,” Shiro supplies.

“And you’ve talked to Keith,” mimics Lance. “What’d he say, though,” tacks on Lance, unable to hide his curiosity.

Shiro chuckles. “He was surprised. ‘Does Lance usually do this?’ he asked. And I had to tell him no, that he was special.”

“Not in those words, I hope,” says Lance, eyes widening in horror.

Shiro shrugs, grins. Lance lets out a silent scream and slides down the couch.

“I bet he thinks I’m obsessed with him now, that’s so _embarrassing_.”

Shiro pauses. “You’re not? I’ve heard you talk about a ‘Keith’ for months now.” Shiro nods knowingly. “I know it’s my Keith now, though.”

“Of course I am? That’s kind of the problem?” Lance flails his arms impassionately. “Get with the program, Shiro, I was going to get over him if I had another week! And now! If I see more of him, how is that going to happen! Having a crush is exhausting! I have things to do! People to see! You know I’m weak like that, Shiro!”

Lance can tell Shiro knows exactly what he’s talking about when his face works into an apologetic expression. Lance remembers the March he was madly in love with Shiro. It hadn’t worked well for anybody. He is not looking forward to going through that again.

“Why don’t you guys just date?” suggests Shiro, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’ve been yelling about wanting to.”

“No offense, Shiro, but can you like use your head for once,” scolds Lance, fully aware that Takashi Shirogane is a certified genius. “Dating is kind of a two-way street? As in, both people need to reciprocate? Which? Would be kind of impossible in this situation? Shiro? Pay attention?”

“You tend to use people’s names a lot when you’re emotional,” notes Shiro. Lance’s mind protects itself from remembering earlier in the day by bombing him with the HEYEAYEA song with the blonde guy that has a bowl cut. “I don’t think it’d be as unlikely as you’re making it out to be. How’d you guys meet, again? I don’t think you’ve ever told me that part.”

Lance breathes. “Wow, I actually don’t remember that well?” lies Lance. “Uh, I just remember Keith was really hot and then this happened out of nowhere.” I broke down in front of him and then we had really nice sex, is what he means, but Lance isn’t about to say that out loud.

Shiro sits on this, visibly rolling the words around in his head. Lance suddenly has an irrational fear that Shiro is going to judge him for being so easily misguided and they’ll never be able to talk again because Shiro will think Lance is pathetic and won’t want to waste any more time with him and never talk to him again and, wow, that’d suck—

“I don’t think I’ll ever really get used to people calling my little brother hot,” muses Shiro, and Lance can breathe again.

“Wait,” says Lance pleasantly. “Did you just say Keith is your little brother?”

“Well,” says Shiro, equally as pleasant. “Yes.”

“Well,” says Lance, even more pleasant. “How absolutely typical.”


	7. all around me are familiar faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lance is a good person, fundamentally. it's just that he takes the long road sometimes.

Matt, in typical Matt fashion, somehow knows all the details by the next morning, and had sent a reaction video of himself just braying loud, honking laughter for three minutes and thirty two seconds in the group chat. This is not the first time Matt has sent this exact video. He also has at least five different recordings of him laughing the exact same laugh for the exact same length of time. The only reason Lance knows Matt went to the trouble of doing so is Pidge made a video comparison of them side by side and there had been a game night dedicated to finding the subtle differences.

Matt, who is supposed to be a fancy space engineer at NASA, had not at all refined his sense of humor since he’d left. Lance is further reminded of this when Matt changes all his profile pictures on all four of his social media outlets to an unflattering screenshot of Lance’s face turning purple, taken directly from the video that had gone viral overnight.

“Can you tell your brother to shut the fuck up,” pleads Lance.

“Do it your own damn self,” says Pidge. “I’m eating my oats.” She shoves a spoonful of Honey Bunches of Oats cereal into her mouth.

“I thought it was funny,” says Hunk. Hunk is also eating a bowl of oats, because he claims eating fiber in the morning helps him with the bowel problems he sometimes gets and also is the only modicum of peace in his life. And Lance has never really understood why people sliced bananas into their cereal, but seeing as it was Hunk that was doing it, he also really wasn’t going to ask.

“Hunk, no,” says Lance. “I can’t let him know I care,” adds Lance desperately to Pidge.

Pidge snorts, thumbs her nose. “And how well is that working for you?”

The three of them are in the dining hall closest to their dorm, and on their way, Lance has already had four different people ask if he was the guy from the video. He’d not managed to avoid the question very well. Pidge had already filmed all of his reactions, and Lance is uncomfortably aware that one of them involves him walking into a lamplight in his effort to leave. The other three consist of him making unattractive faces and spluttering.

“Peachy,” says Lance. “Look, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy this at least a little—”

“More than a little,” says Hunk, trying and failing to conceal his smile. “You got Kakashi from Accounting to talk to you.”

“Nyma from Sociology said hi,” says Pidge sagely. Her oats crunch loudly in her mouth. Lance worries they’ll get caught in her braces and break something. “You’re lucky we got you out of there before you embarrassed yourself. She was already laughing, though.”

“I embarrass myself constantly just from living,” Lance says. He solemnly takes a bite from a piece of buttered toast.

“He’s become self-aware,” Pidge whispers.

“We’ll still love you even if you’re embarrassing, Lance,” Hunk reassures, patting him on the back.

Lance wipes a way a tear. “Bro.”

“Bro.”

“ _Bro_.”

“BRO.”

“ _BR—_ ”

Lance abruptly ducks under the dining table.

“What are you doing this time,” says Pidge. 

“I’m hiding,” Lance insists, rubbing his bruised forehead. “Just cover me for a bit.”

“Hunk, tell me if Keith just came.”

“Keith just came.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised.” 

Hunk and Pidge chat normally for a few minutes, and Lance somehow gets to thinking that that is that and he can spend the rest of breakfast hiding under the table until Keith leaves and continue on his merry way. Or _surly_ way. Same difference, really.

This does not happen, because though Lance immediately forgets each time within four to five business days, Hunk does have his moments where he decides to be an asshole. 

“Hey! Keith!” Hunk waves cheerily. “Come sit with us!”

Keith, who had just exited the buffet, starts surreptitiously eyeing around for any other Keiths Hunk might have been referring to. Hunk makes eye contact, smiles in his direction, and Keith walks uncertainly toward them.

“Hunk!” hisses Lance under his breath. “I thought we were bros!”

“I thought I’d welcome our new dorm mate,” Hunk whispers back patiently. Lance doesn’t miss the laughter in his eyes. “Shiro’s busy, so I figured he wouldn’t have anybody to sit with.”

Keith pulls out a chair for himself, and spots Lance underneath the table, clinging on to one of the table legs. Their eyes meet.

Lance’s heart leaps up his throat. 

Keith, not blinking, seats himself and starts in on his breakfast. Lance is almost offended.

“So, Keith,” Lance hears Pidge say above the table. She clears her throat. “We hear you and Lance have met before? How’d that go?” Pidge is just asking to be contrary. She knows exactly how it went. Lance has recounted the story to her so often, she could recite it in her sleep.

Three beats of silence too many go by before Keith starts to answer. “…Normal, I guess,” says Keith. He sounds a little uncomfortable, but Lance can’t gauge Keith’s expression from his current position.

Pidge, gathering that this line of conversation isn’t going to go anywhere, changes gears. “So! What made you decide to transfer here?”

“I’ve been planning it for…a while. I took a gap year after high school to consider my options, so…” Keith trails off uncertainly.

“I was considering taking a year off too!” chimes in Hunk. “But I was really excited about the engineering program here, so I chose to continue with school! It definitely took a lot of thought, since my family lives pretty far away and I wouldn’t be able to see them often.” 

The conversation continues in that same vein, with Hunk and Pidge steering the conversation, asking questions, and giving Keith room to speak when he wanted to. During the next fifteen minutes, while Lance continues eating from his plate he’d edged off the table, Lance learns that Keith is 20, an Aries, thinks salt roasted peanuts are better than peanut butter, and really hates raisins.

It’s all kind of adorable, because Keith’s answers gradually become less and less tense through the conversation when he realizes that Hunk and Pidge are nice people, slowly volunteering more information about himself, and lets out a small laugh that Lance is really disappointed he didn’t get to see.

The only unfortunate part is there’s not much to do under a table, so he has no choice other than to stare at Keith’s legs, which bounce, cross, and tap intermittently. Keith, Lance notices faintly, is wearing skinny jeans again.

“We’ve got to go now,” announces Pidge. “Me and Hunk have a class in ten minutes.”

“Lance can show you around, if you haven’t been toured already,” says Hunk. He pushes in his chair, squeaking as it slides towards the table. He looks down to Lance, who was, at that moment, unfortunately, in the middle of licking his plate clean. Lance puts the plate on the floor beside him and pretends to have been looking at his nails. Hunk looks at him knowingly.

“I wouldn’t want to bother him,” Keith says. He’s also getting up, and Lance kind of mourns Keith’s calves moving away. “I can just explore, shouldn’t be too bad.”

“Who said you’d be bothering me?” Lance says indignantly, speaking for the first time. “Don’t decide things for yourself.”

“You literally ducked under a table to avoid talking to me,” Keith says flatly. He arches a single eyebrow and scrunches his nose.

Lance sniffs, getting out from under the table and placing his plate on the drop off area. “Who said it was because of you? Kind of self-centered, of you, there. I do this every day to collect my thoughts.”

Keith is already halfway across the dining hall and is headed toward the door. Pidge and Hunk are already gone. Lance scuttles out to follow.

“Hey,” says Lance, hands in his pocket and tagging along. They’re walking through the quad, now. “I really was collecting my thoughts. I kind of left on a weird note yesterday, and if I hadn’t done what I did, it’d be like, ‘Hey, look, there’s the guy that totally spends every waking moment thinking of me, better leave before things get awkward.’ You should be thanking me, really. You got to talk to Hunk and Pidge!”

Keith walks faster. “I don’t think I remember you being this snarky.”

Lance chuckles, follows pace. He’s feeling a lot more comfortable with this whole thing knowing that being tetchy only led to meals alone on the ground, hidden from sight, like a gremlin. “The Lance that you met was the one that was sleep deprived and going through multiple existential crises. Your regular, day-to-day Lance has a joke for every occasion, usually myself, and will charm your pants off.”

Keith surveys the surrounding buildings as he continues his quick pace, taking in the sight of the beautiful buildings and busy walkways. “I think we already got to that part.”

“And not again, because we already have too many complications in our lives!” says Lance, skipping slightly along and starting to enjoy this. He watches Keith’s mullet shift as he moves. “In our renewed efforts to get along, you should wear a paper bag over your face 24/7, and promise to never talk to Timmy about _anything_.”

Keith turns around and looks Lance in the eye. “No and no,” he replies. Keith crosses his arms. Lance notices belatedly that they’re back at the front of the dorm. “So. Are you going to tour me around or not?”

“Excellent question,” bows Lance. Straightening up, he gestures at the dorm building. “This is the Shirogane dorm.”

Keith stares pointedly at the plague mounted above the entryway. “No, it’s called Turing.”

“There’s something called nicknames, buddy,” Lance says. He swipes his ID card through the recognition software and steps grandly inside. Keith follows suit.

“Takashi Shirogane, as you know, is the poster child for space. As he is the youngest person to ever be an astronaut, and also fine as hell, and the forty of us have repurposed this dorm room in his honor. Most of the people on campus call it that, too.” Lance gestures towards the common room. “There are four large couches, a few small ones, and a rocking chair. That one belongs to Pidge. Don’t sit on it. Carolyn, who is sitting on it right now, will meet her end very soon, but presently, we will let her suffer over her Physics assignment.

“There’s a game system and that huge TV, which we use to watch Netflix on dorm movie nights, and that coffee table-ish thing. In case you were wondering, that is indeed a marble bust of Shiro. One of the art students made it in his likeness, and it sits under the TV to watch over us all.” 

“Why are you talking like Morgan Freeman? And this is creepy,” says Keith, furrowing his brow. He looks unsettled.“You do know that Shiro is an enormous dork, right?”

Lance nods, flashing a smile. “Oh, we do. That’s one of his charm points.”

“Isn’t it his actual job to watch over all of you?” asks Keith. He’s staring at the bust in mild fascination. It is startling in its accuracy. “He’s the RA, isn’t he? Why would you need another one of these?”

Lance pats Keith on the back. “Listen,” he says in sympathy. “We could have the entire campus covered with busts of his face, and it wouldn’t be enough.” Keith doesn’t quite look like he agrees, but Lance moves on with vigor. “And there’s the kitchen, which is only ever used by Hunk and a few other people because most of us can’t cook for shit. Don’t eat the stuff in the fridge if it’s not yours; your safety will not be guaranteed. The bathroom’s down the hall, and you’ve already seen the rooms.”

Lance leads Keith upstairs and to the door second from the left. Keith looks interested, and Keith looks very _cute_ interested, and Lance is not about to die. He’s gotten used to this. Keith is just an ordinary person, now. Lance is building resistance! This is good!

“This,” says Lance, “is mine and Hunk’s room.” He pushes open the door and maneuvers through some stuff on the floor to flop onto his bed. “You can hit me up if you need anything. My door’s usually open, so just give me a heads up and come in.

Keith is looking around, taking stock, but there’s not really anything special. He has a few posters and various other knick knacks up on the wall, pictures of his family and friends on his desk, and his school books and clothes scattered all over his side of the room, clearly marked by bright yellow duct tape. Hunk’s half is closer to the door, and is mostly clear save for the various machinery projects tucked neatly into the corner.

“You printed out a life-size poster of Beyoncé and stuck it on the ceiling,” says Keith, matter-of-fact. “And a cat.”

“ _My_ cat,” corrects Lance. “Her name is Blue and I love her.”

Keith hums, looking at the pictures on his desk. “It’s nice,” he says finally. He tucks a strand of hair behind his left ear, his lashes lowering as he inspects the frames. “You can really tell someone lives here.”

“That’s kind of the point, my guy,” says Lance. His face is spontaneously flaring red. The AC works at its whimsy because somebody accidentally dumped Red Bull on it when they were drunk, and Lance is wont to overheat at times. They should really get that fixed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Lance shows Keith around the rest of the campus, littered with commentary including but not limited to which food trucks he should go for, where the stoners hang out, the proper etiquette that needed to be observed when buying weed from said stoners, where people go to get drinks, the stand with a bulletin board for announcements, the other dining halls, where Hunk met his girlfriend Shay, who, incidentally, lifted weights, the five by seven foot wall scroll at the back of the school bookstore that says ‘sign if you would die for Takashi Shirogane’ that is impossible to tell used to be white on account of all the ink (“How is Shiro okay with all of this?” “He thinks the whole thing is hilarious.”), a rough outline of all the other dorms, the large grass area, the exact space where a girl had picked up a pen he’d dropped, all the different buildings, six particularly beautiful trees, and the athletics space, including the track on which Matt ran, yelling, seven nonstop 1/4 mile laps after Shiro had gotten Allura’s okay to go out with him (even though he was a scrawny nerd that never exercised more than walking to and from class), Lance stops and grins at Keith. “I’ve saved the best for last.” 

“I thought the last place was the best,” says Keith. He’d listened cordially through Lance’s chattering, and only rolled his eyes about twice. He’d even helped keep the conversation going. Lance counts this as a good sign.

“The best of the best, then,” says Lance, excited. He bounces on the ball of his toes. “This is actually really cool!”

It’s the parking garage. It’s towering and gray and cement, two above ground levels and one below. Keith looks up, questioning. “What happened here that was so cool?”

“A lot,” says Lance, waggling his eyebrows. He claps his hands. “But we’ll go over them another time. Come on, you need to see this! Race you!” And he runs into the dark garage, into the area with the steps, and runs up two flights of stairs. Keith is a few steps behind at the start since he doesn’t really know where anything is and is just following Lance. 

Running alongside Keith through rows of sensible cars and narrow stairways is pretty elating, for some reason. Even with this being an on the spot competition, Lance finds himself oddly determined to win. Apparently Keith is the person that races when told to. That’s actually kind of sweet. Pidge just walks and Hunk tries but loses motivation when he starts breaking sweat. He’s strong, but his stamina isn’t great.

 They tie breaking into the second floor.

“I won,” says Keith smugly. He’s not even breathing hard.

“I didn’t say where the end was,” says Lance, because he is petty. Keith performs his third eye roll of the day and Lance grins. 

“This was what I wanted to show you,” Lance says. He starts walking again, a spring in his step. He stops at a corner door hidden in the corner by shadow and a car parked a foot from its entrance. Lance gesticulates to the door padlocked shut. Lance’s smile splits his whole face. “Ta-da.”

Keith gazes at it, unimpressed. “It’s a door. And it’s locked. And there’s a sign that says ‘Off Limits’.”

Lance shakes his head, nudges the door with his foot. “Keith, my man, limits are what you make of them!” Lance lifts the bar locking it in place, and it gives way easily. Lance pushes open the door, and it open to reveals yet another flight of stairs. Lance takes Keith’s hand. “Watch your step, sweetheart,” he sings.

“We just ran up two flights of these things without using the rails,” deadpans Keith. “I think I’ll be fine.”

Lance tugs at his arm. “Better safe than sorry,” he says charmingly. Keith, predictably, takes his hand back just to be spiteful.

This flight of stairs is a lot shorter comparative to the others. It’s height goes just above the ceiling of the second flight, and opens to a stretch of cement spanning the size of the floor below.

“Nice, huh?” says Lance, spinning around to grin at Keith. It’s a nice open space, if a bit bare; the wind is blowing, carrying the scent of spring just around the corner, and the sun shines down brightly. There’s no fence to prevent anybody from falling off, since the place was supposed to be off-limits anyway, but there are cement blocks about up to Lance’s hip enclosing them. “Nobody knows about this place except for me and Hunk and Pidge."

Keith walks over to the edge and surveys the view, which consists of the English building and the expansive quad. He props his chin on his hand. “This is nice,” he says, soft. The edges of his eyes blunt. “On campus there’s a lot of people everywhere, so a space like this is really relaxing.”

Lance nods. “Right? And don’t lean out too much, if people see you, somebody’s gonna come to fix the lock.”

Aside from when he and his friends have a mini star-viewing party, Lance comes out here when he needs alone time. That is to say, about once every week. That part of his routine is kind of important to him. He doesn’t usually feel ecstatic to share this place with people, but Keith makes Lance feel like he wants to tell him everything.

“Feel free to come up here whenever you feel like it,” says Lance, glad that Keith seems to like the place. He steals a last look at Keith, and then, before he can lose his nerve and Keith is suitably distracted by the scenery, Lance grudgingly forces out, “And, uh. Sorry for yesterday. I guess.”

Keith, not missing a beat, says, “For what?”

Lance gives Keith a dirty look, sighs. Elaborating like it’s taking all the energy out of him, he continues, grudgingly, “For. You know. Beaning you over the head, and stuff. In front of people when you’re new and probably have enough to worry about without me having to do anything. It was stupid and I was caught up in the moment, so. Yeah. Sorry.”

Keith is quiet, pensive. He’s doing something with his eyebrows again, for fuck’s sakes. Lance presses on, hating awkward silences more than anything. “And even if we were to, like, not mention it at all for the rest of the time we knew each other, it would be weird if two years later you were like, ‘I hated you all along, Throwback Thursday, motherfucker, this entire friendship is a joke’ and then I would have to feel bad about it all over again, so I thought it’d be more convenient if we just got this out of the way first, you know how it is, my mama says don’t wait until things bite you in the behin—”

“It’s okay, Lance,” says Keith. He’s angled himself towards Lance, the side of his face resting on his knuckles resting on his elbows on the ledge. “I’d kind of forgotten after you started showing me around.”

“Oh, thank god,” Lance breathes, pressing his fingers into the bridge of his nose. “That saves me a lot of trouble, I was going to have to do a grand gesture if you said no.”

Keith, suddenly, looks relieved. “Oh. Well. Good that I didn’t then.”

Lance straightens up, one hand in a fist at his chest, the other behind him on his lower back. He lifts his chin. “Never fear, space cadet, for now I will do a grand gesture to commemorate our newfound friendship!”

Keith backs a step away, presses the heels of his feet down. “I think I’m good.”

Lance clucks in indignation. “It’s not that bad! It’s a rite of passage! Pidge and Hunk went through it, too!”

Keith contemplates this. “Did Shiro?” he asks, scanning Lance’s face. Suddenly acutely aware of a bead of sweat making its way down his spine, Lance coughs.

“Not. Exactly. My best friend package is a little different than the hot upperclassman package.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “That’s oddly specific.” He’s crossing his arms again. Can Lance not catch a _break._ “So which one am I getting?”

Lance coughs forcefully. “That, uh. Depends.”

“On?” That eyebrow is inching higher and higher and Lance swears it’s heading into hairline territory.

“You’re making this awkward, Keith, when I say it out loud it sounds dumb!” Lance shrieks, raising his voice. It cracks. Very noticeably. Lance wants to die. “Fine! You’re not getting any package! Have fun having an undefined relationship with me, asshole!”

Keith is staring at him again. After he’s said it, and has spent a second catching his breath, it occurs to Lance that “undefined relationship” is the kind of term you use for a very specific type of relationship. And that it is uncomfortably close to the truth. 

Lance should make another kind of package for these types of situations.

Lance composes himself. “That was kind of extra,” admits Lance.

“Yeah,” says Keith. He shuffles his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Do you need a minute to breathe?”

“Yes, please,” says Lance. Keith politely looks away. Lance turns around and squats on the floor, smushes his hands into the sides of his face. Thinks about everything that he’s done in his life that’s gotten him to this point. Thinks for a solid two minutes. He knows. He’d counted.

“I’m done, now,” Lance says to the ground.

“Okay,” Lance hears Keith say.

“At this point, _you_ should really be the one doing a grand gesture for _me_.”

Lance peeks back at Keith. Keith looks like he wants to disagree, but resigns himself. “You’re being a baby, but okay.”

“Eat my socks, Keith,” Lance says.

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“Okay.”

“My next class is in ten minutes, so please carry me there.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“ _Keith_.”


	8. it's time to d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i love pidge/lance friendship *shakes fist at dreamworks* i need more of the kind of interaction that was in the mall episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my update schedule is not an actual thing but i got Comments and i was Invigorated

“I don’t understand this,” Lance is saying. “Men are all the same. They’ll just use you, and then they’re done. You warned me, Taylor.”

“She did,” says Pidge. She’s leaning against the wall on Lance’s bed. Propping her pillow under her chin, she inspects her cards again. “You didn’t listen, and look where that got you. I place this card in face down defense mode.”

“Stop that,” commands Lance. “I attack with Curse of Dragon.”

Lance’s brother had sent out a box of his old OG gen Yugioh cards. As soon as the box had arrived in post, Lance had immediately set aside his science project in order to set up a round for nostalgia.

Pidge, unsurprisingly, had a box of her own tucked under her bed.

“Ba-bam. It’s Marshmallon, bitch.”

“Pidge!” Lance shrieks. “Why would you _kick_ me when I’m _down_!”

“It’s not done yet,” smirks Pidge, adjusting her glasses. “My turn now. I XYZ summon Number 39: Utopia!”

“I don’t know what that means,” moans Lance. He kicks up his graveyard in dramatics. “I never got past GX.”

“And even then only because you had a crush on Chazz,” says Pidge sagely. “Which is kind of a downgrade from Dark Magician Girl and Yami Yugi, but I’m not going to judge you for your life choices.”

When they finish the duel, Lance looks sadly down at his cards. “I got obliterated.”

Pidge is satisfied. “I’ve still got it,” she says cheerfully. “Do you wanna go again?”

“We had a difference of three thousand life points,” Lance says, squinting at the piece of line paper beside his deck. “I think I’m good.”

“A shame,” Pidge says. She cracks her knuckles, starts organizing her deck. They’ve got sleeves and everything. God, how pretentious. Lance’s cards had always been blown away on the playground when he was playing with his friends. And then, he’d always won. He’s out of practice. Pidge has that extra edge, being four years younger and everything. “I’ll play with Hunk when he gets back.”

“You should’ve played me when I was in my prime,” Lance whines. “Back in 2008, the summer of High School Musical 3.”

Pidge is unimpressed. “I was in the third grade.”

Lance isn’t buying it. “You’re saying that like you wouldn’t have won at least 50% of the time regardless.”

“Well,” concedes Pidge. “You’re right.”

She’s still staring at the cards. It’s clear she hasn’t given up on wanting to play again.

“Hunk isn’t going to be back for two hours,” Lance reminds her kindly. “He’s got the internship at the engineering company.”

Pidge droops. Her shoulders drop two entire inches and her head flops over her front like a particularly depressing doll.

Lance stares. Pidge is still hunched over. Lance stares harder. Pidge twists her head so she can stare at him forlornly.

“Fucking fine,” groans Lance. Then, “Oh.”

“What is it now?” Pidge says, already recovered. She’s impatiently shuffling her rich person deck. Or, more accurately, one of them. Pidge had shown him pictures. At home, she has a briefcase of cards worth $20,000 total. “I’m not going to go easy on you. I took out the god cards already, you can’t need much more than that.”

“I just remembered Keith plays Yugioh,” Lance realizes. Now on his back, he counts the holes on the ceiling. “Should I ask him to come with us?”

Pidge crosses her legs and looks at him plaintively. “What are you waiting for?”

“Evangelion 3.0+1.0,” Lance answers reflectively. He shakes his head to organize his thoughts. “Wait, no. I just spent the last half hour telling you how I’ve irreversibly embarrassed myself in front of him? I can’t just knock on his door and ask him to be in an enclosed space with me, what the fuck.”

“You literally can,” Pidge deadpans. “He’s down the hall. And I’ll be here, you dumbass. Hurry up. Hopefully he’s better than you.”

Lance warbles pitifully and looks soulfully into Pidge’s eyes.

Pidge kicks him in the back, rolling him to the doorway. “You embarrass yourself irreversibly on a daily basis, nobody cares enough to make anything of it anymore,” she says unsympathetically. “Now get a move on.”

At face with this ironclad logic, Lance sits up and creaks open his doorknob pitifully. Hanging his weight from the doorknob, Lance swings the door open with the force of his body. 

Snaking out before he gets too much of Pidge’s stink-eye, Lance rolls himself bodily in front of Keith’s door. Pressing his ear to the door, head level with the ground, Lance catches the tail end of some eighties pop music. The guy's music taste and his hair were from the same era. He was consistent, at least.

Alright. Lance could just ask like a normal person. That’s true. That’s undoubtedly a very solid option. It’s such a solid option that doing anything else seems foolish. Rock solid. Rock hard abs. Lance wants to lie his head on some abs right now.

What was he thinking about, again? Right. Inviting Keith. Lance contemplates his options again. For five minutes. And again, there really is only one option.

 

 

 

“What is this,” says Keith. He’s looking through a crack in his door. 

“My feelings,” says Lance. 

Lance is on on knee, head inclined to the ground. He has an interesting rock he’d found outside in his hand where a ring would usually be, given this position. Lance had briefly considered that, but he didn’t want to spend 75 entire cents on a ring pop for Keith. That just screams of desperation. Lance has standards, here. He always waits exactly ninety seven seconds before texting back new people.

Keith’s one visible eye narrows. Keith closes the door.

Lance waits ten seconds. Keith does not reopen the door.

“Oh, thank god,” says Lance.

Sarah sneezes into her sax.

 

 

 

“It’s been ten minutes,” Pidge says. She’s sitting on Lance’s stomach. Lance finds it a little hard to breathe. “I thought you’d taken a shit break. Where is Keith.”

“He didn’t want to come,” wheezes Lance. “Pidge, please get off.”

Pidge ignores him. “Does his refusal have anything to do with the fact that _somebody_ ,” she presses harder down on Lance, “was playing Careless Whisper in the hall?”

“I’m not a douche, Pidge, there needed to be _ambiance_ ,” Lance defends. He twists his stomach to the side, and Pidge falls off. “I allowed Sarah my forgiveness if she’d be my background musician for a week. I’m a classy guy, and seducing someone into your room needs a solid soundtrack.”

“That’s not what you were there for, you shit. You fucking fool,” grumbles Pidge. “Leave your romantic escapades out of this? You’ve got to play with me for three more hours to make up for it.”

“You have an essay due tonight at at eleven,” Lance reminds her.

“I just need to source it,” dismisses Pidge. She cracks her knuckles, smiles devilishly. “Let’s have fun.”

Lance sets himself down in resignation. “My pride is in your hands, Middendorff's Grasshopper-Warbler.”

“Trust me,” Pidge sings. “There won’t be any left.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i associate klance with "come on eileen" so please listen to it


	9. keith, my guy, you're gonna get through this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why is keith suddenly transfer, anyways, isn't that a bit convenient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a funny fic what the fuck? i mean it is still but like. can i not. it's been a month already, god

Alright. He’d gotten fired because of inappropriate use of fireworks, which, okay, fair. He’d gotten a decent amount of warning, so he’d had time to budget for the loss of income and plan for another job. He’d been all ready to move on, until he’d gotten an unfortunate call from Shiro at an unfortunate time. Shiro, for whatever reason, makes it a point to call Keith at least once a week. Twice a week, actually, or even thrice when he’s in the mood to talk to the most boring person to exist. Keith hadn’t minded. He’d actually looked forward to the calls. He’s never going to admit this to Shiro, but he suspects Shiro knows anyway.

So, while working through a nasty case of diarrhea from his less-than-stellar diet of instant noodles and frozen grocery store meals, he’d listened to Shiro’s update on his life, most notably that his boyfriend and girlfriend had struck up a friendship that consisted mostly of roasting him. They’d already done that individually before, but now they did it together via Skype and bounced ideas off each other and brought up embarrassing Shiro stories, of which there were many.

“So then Allura brings up that time she’d—What am I doing, I haven’t asked about you yet. What’ve you been doing lately?”

“Dying,” had said Keith pointedly. A shit plopped loudly into the toilet bowl.

“Right. Same as always, then. Anything else? Have you eaten that box of fruit I sent you?” 

“Uh,” Keith said. “Yeah. So much fiber. It’s. Really, uh. Good for me. Heart healthy, and all that.”

Shiro politely ignored the obvious lie. “You’ve been complaining about stomach aches too, how’s that going?”

“Ha, yeah, just as great as my career. Swimmingly.” 

Whoops. He’d added a touch more bitterness than necessary.

Shiro did pause that time. “Keith,” he said sternly. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Keith imagined Shiro crossing his arms and giving that patented Big Brother Shiro look. On an armchair, in a sweater vest and Oxfords, coke bottle glasses and all. “That voice won’t work on me Shiro, I’m an adult now.”

Shiro laughed right into the speaker. “That’s hilarious. Last week you phoned me to ask how taxes work.”

“And you didn’t know,” Keith snarks. “You had to ask your girlfriend.”

“Keith, I’m serious,” Shiro said, cutting off any potential arguments that might arise. “What’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Shiro sighed. “Keith.”

“Oh, nothing much, Shiro,” said Keith, his vindictive streak suddenly surging. “I’m in my twenties and I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself. I’m going to shit myself into an early grave and I have constant irresponsible tendencies to do stuff that gets me fired from jobs I genuinely like. I can’t make or maintain any interpersonal relationships outside of family, and even then I fuck it up because I’m a wet blanket and I still don’t get how fucking taxes work. Maybe that’s it, Shiro, I don’t know, this is all a wild guess.”

Shiro took a moment to sit on this. Keith finished up his business and flushed the toilet, washing his hands and wandering out of the restroom and crashing face-first into his bed. “At least you know what’s bothering you,” said Shiro. His voice was pitched kinder, like he knew Keith needed a hug and was trying to make up with it via sound instead of actual physical contact. “I could never identify my problems without at least two hours of therapy.”

“Yeah, now I get to dwell on them for years without making any effort to solve them. At least you work on what to do to make yourself happier. I’m just going to keep all my feelings right here, and then I’ll die,” said Keith, turning his face slightly to face the receiver. His voice comes out muffled from beside the blankets.

Shiro was silent. Keith thought, for a brief, panicky second, that perhaps he had finally warded Shiro off with his awful attitude, until Shiro let out a short burst of laughter. Then he laughed again. Then he laughed until his lungs were hacking with the effort.

“Oh my god,” wheezed Shiro. “Oh my god.”

“What now, Shiro,” said Keith, slightly annoyed now that his panic has subsided. 

“I can’t believe I’ve lived long enough for someone to tell me I’ve got my shit together,” said Shiro, still breathless from laughter. “The world keeps coming at me, I don’t—fucking hell.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. Shiro usually made an active effort not to swear.

“I’ve never told you how I lost my arm, have I?” Shiro said. His voice wavered, but there was an undertone of steel to the words.

So Keith, uselessly lying on his bed, listens to Shiro give a quick, half-minute overview of being trafficked into a fight ring, getting his arm hacked off to see if he could still defeat anybody, and the losers that were funneled into the organ market. Keith could tell that Shiro was carefully keeping any details from slipping out and just giving the gist. The gist is duly taken.

“I was rescued, eventually,” said Shiro. His voice was steady. “But I threw myself into work to forget, had unhealthy coping mechanisms, and had panic attacks that came and went whenever they pleased. I’m still working through it. I wouldn’t have done the therapy if Matt hadn’t already went and paid for a year’s worth. If I didn’t have people supporting me, I wouldn’t be where I am today. It took a lot of work.”

So, as Keith rearranged his worldview, Shiro slipped in, casually, and said, “Hey. Are you up for something new? You could come to my college. The spring semester is starting soon, you could transfer in then. We could see each other more often, and you could get the experience.”

“Yeah,” said Keith absently. “I’m going to sell my apartment to move cities away just because.”

“You say this like it’s not what you do every year or so, anyway,” Shiro rebuked. “You got fired, right? It’s about that time you usually leave. This could be good for you. And I haven’t seen you in months. Why not?”

Keith flopped over on his back, stared at his ceiling. His eyes ached. It seemed increasingly attractive to have his consciousness scatter into dust with the sunlight fading into the horizon. “And it’s going to be that convenient, of course.”

Keith can hear Shiro’s smile over the phone. “I can just write a recommendation letter. I have quite a bit of say on campus, you know.”

“I appreciate how shameless you are. This is nepotism, you realize,” said Keith. Keith fumbled for a glass of water on his bedside table that had been sitting there for a week. He tipped it carefully into his mouth, only spilling a drop onto the side of his cheek. He let it slide down onto his sheets. “How am I supposed to handle tuition and board?”

“Mom and Dad are rich,” said Shiro cheerfully. “If you don’t want to just take the money, you’ve got some saved up, right? You can spend the rest of your life paying it back, if you want.”

“Tempting,” said Keith, dry. He spared a thought for the empty refrigerator in the kitchen and the stickiness of the unwashed wood flooring in his apartment. He tried to remember the last time he’d gone out for fun with friends. “I’ll think about it. Good night, Shiro.” He waited for Shiro to give his cursory reply before clicking off the call.

He glanced out the window. Sunlight was streaming out through his slanted shades. It illuminates the dust settled in the air, catching it in some kind of ethereal picture amid the heaps of discarded clothing scattered about the floor.

Keith turned over. He slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyways, i say this every chapter, but i'm absolutely thirsty for comments, so if you could do that,

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment/kudos please and thank
> 
> feel free to leave any questions and i will answer them if they're not spoiler-ish
> 
> @matsumakki.tumblr.com


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